CLEAR WATERS 



Llanidloes, whose remaining poachers do not, I think, 

 regard the Wye as within their legitimate sphere. 

 Both to the north and south the moors spring sharply 

 up from the vale and spread away interminably. I 

 have more than once made brief halts for a day or so 

 at the Black Lion when exploring the country, and 

 have had a vow of something much more lasting 

 registered this many a long year. Alas, the brief span 

 of an angler's life is strewn with cruel disappointments. 

 The vow was accomplished this very past season, but in 

 an absolutely hopeless drought, which reduced the river 

 to a positively lower condition than even in the un- 

 forgettable 1911. It is not here a torrential, rocky 

 river, with deep, swirling holes, which even in a drought 

 may tempt you to action, but a rippling, shingly stream, 

 beautiful to fish in normal times, but when shrivelled up 

 offering scarcely a spot where you could hopefully cast 

 a fly. I saw plenty of fish in the water, however, and 

 some very good ones too, and it did not need a fort- 

 night's sojourn on its banks and many chats with local 

 anglers to realise that it carried a good stock, and 

 to make one long to be there in May or even a wet 

 August. Fortunately there are attractions other than 

 fishing in this delightful spot, which stands, moreover, 

 a thousand feet above sea-level. An easier and more 

 open stream to fish than this upper ten miles of the 

 Wye I never saw. For the encouragement of youth in 

 the noble art of fly fishing I do not know a better. 



Till quite recently strange superstitions clung 



tenaciously to these head-waters of the Wye. It was 



a cul-de-sac. The Aberystwith road ceased with the 



collapse of coaching to be even the modest artery it 



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